Clarity
by Huntress Under Seige
Summary: A snapshot of the love between Clint Barton and Natasha Romanov; a love that should never have been, and yet thrives. Songfic, Clintasha, rated for implied sexy times and Natasha's past. One-shot.


**Little thingy I whipped up last night while listening to the song Clarity by Zedd (ft. Foxes). Its house music, so if you don't like that then don't listen, I get that the music itself isn't very Clintasha; but the words themselves are. **

**I don't own the song, nor do I won the Avengers. Though I do own a crazy amount of Avengers Chibi's which were all bought from Walmart. Adorable babies.**

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_I dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life_  
_Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time_  
_Hold still right before we crash 'cause we both know how this ends_  
_A clock ticks 'til it breaks your glass and I drown in you again._

She wakes in a cold sweat, eyes flying open as she comes back to reality. Her gun pressed against the darkness, before her vision adjusts and tells her that it is, in fact, the dead center of someone's chest; the same someone who had attempted to wake her. Wide brown eyes stare into calm blue, a trembling thumb against the safety, ready to click it off at a moments notice.

"...'Tasha." A familiar voice. _His_ voice. She lets her head fall back to her pillow with a sigh. The gun stays in her hand but moves away from his chest, her thumb shifting off the safety.

She knows what he wants to ask. _What caused it this time?_ When was he going to understand that she couldn't tell him what he wanted so desperately to hear? That she couldn't tell him the things she had been forced to do, the things that had been forced _upon_ her; the conversation was out of the question. There were things that would make even the most seasoned assassin cringe, and she had done every. Single. One.

Turning her head sharply to the side, she tries to keep her breath from becoming too shaky. Their little analog clock sits on the bedside table, the second hand ticking away the seconds until her departure, as if nothing had changed. As if she hadn't re-lived every mission that she had ever taken, Clint replacing the target at the very last minute; she relived his death over and over again, _killed _him over and over again.

10 ticks. She squeezes her eyes against the memories.

20 ticks. He brushes her hair off her forehead, softly, gently, not speaking.

30 ticks. Her breathing finally calms, though her body remains too tight to sleep.

40 ticks. He sits back on his knees, so he's no longer looming over her; though the fact that he is still straddling her has not changed.

50 ticks. The gun slips out of her hands, hitting the floor with a low rattle. Her eyes snap open and she looks up at him, mouth set in a straight line.

60 ticks. Midnight - a new dawn.

_'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need_  
_Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why_  
_If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?_  
_If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?  
__If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?  
__If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?_

She sits up, her lips on his instantly, hands cupping his scarred jaw as his wrapped around her waist, keeping her pinned to him. They both know they shouldn't be doing this; they both know the problems that would arise from it. The emotions that would keep them in pain through the rest of the day, until they got their midnight release.

But neither of them can stop themselves.

It's insanity; in their business, any day could be their last. This could be their farewell kiss. This could be the last time she runs her hands over the scars on his chest and back, knowing their stories better than anyone else, and still knowing that there was more that even _she _hadn't been told.

This could be the last time his hands sneak up the overly large flannel button down, one of his old ones, feeling soft skin beneath his calloused palms and fingertips. This could be the last time he felt her against him, around him, completing him.

This could be the last time.

This should be the last time. It really should, but in a world of monsters and magic and things they were never trained for, along with all the nightmares they _were_ trained for, they need a little clarity.

They need each other.

Or so he tells himself as he enters her, feels her nails against his back and lips at his throat, the tears on her eyelashes swiping across his cheek like miniature paintbrushes.

So she tells herself as she rocks against him, feels his arms wrapped around her and mouth at her ear, his breath washing over her skin in an ever changing proof of life.

_Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends_  
_It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense_  
_Don't speak as I try to leave 'cause we both know what we'll choose_  
_If you pull then I'll push too deep and I'll fall right back to you_

They silently awake for a second time, under much more different circumstances. Natasha blinks against the red sun, its thick rays splashing between the buildings, like blood spray across their bodies; unwanted, and meaning the worst has come true.

Their time together is shot, right through the chest like she had almost done to Clint when the moon's ice has shone upon them. Their bodies are still sticky and damp from their midnight adventure, the sheets wrapped taut around the both of them.

"You know I have to go," she murmurs, looking out the balcony instead of the man who held her.

"You know I don't want to let you go," he counters, holding her tighter to him. Just, for a few moments more, he could pretend that this was a normal love. That this was a normal relationship that didn't depend on her sneaking her way back through the air vents to her quarters and laying in bed until her alarm went off for training.

"Clint," she says in her warning tone. Because they know, they both know all too damn well, what will happen if he continues talking. Natasha slides out of his arms and out of bed, grabbing her discarded shirt from the night before and slipping it back over her naked body, the light piercing the thin fabric so her silhouette is still visible. Fit waist, strong stomach, and just a tiny visual hint of the curve of a breast, the slope of her lower back, before she lets her arms fall and the light is blocked.

Clint sighs and closes his arms around his own body, trying to stave off the emptiness that came with her leave.

Nat reaches to the back of the case containing his prototype arrows and guns, pressing a small button. Despite Stark's complete lack of social cognition, and inability to keep his mouth shut for too long, convincing him that Clint wanted a hiding place that even Fury's best sniffer dogs wouldn't be able to find miraculously remained a secret. The fact that Natasha used it to store a few articles of clothing was a bit harder to explain; though Tony had only found out about it after watching the video footage from inside the little 2'x1' box. Though multiple singe marks and arrow tips embedded in the armor's joints had convinced him to stay quiet, as well as dismantling the camera.

She slips on a simple pair of black panties, enough to cover her when she crawled through the air ducts to get back to her room. Standing, she walks to the wall she knows she'll have to scale; a brief glance over at the clock shows 6:00 am. She had to be in her room, reasonably asleep looking only to be woken up by her S.H.I.E.L.D alarm by 6:45. Just enough time, if she left now-

"Natasha..." She bites her lip, and turns to see Clint, now turned to face her, his hand outstretched. His voice was soft, not desperate, but tender, memorizing the syllables and shape of her name before he was forced to forget this, and go back to only thinking of her as Natasha Romanov, Black Widow and partner.

_'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need_  
_Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why_  
_If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?_  
_If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?_

"Clint, you know I can't stay," she whispers.

"Doesn't mean I don't wish it so," he replies, his tone just as soft.

Throughout all the things that have caused Natasha Romanov pain, the worst all have to do with Clint Barton. The phone call from Phil that Clint had been compromised outweighed the torture promised by the instruments laying on the table in the warehouse across from her. The color of his eyes once he had been taken, painfully morphed to an unnatural, shattered ice blue, outweighed the pain felt within her heart as she repeatedly smacked his head against the railing, then her fist and the floor.

Hearing the soft, almost inaudible whimper as she closes the gate behind her hurts worse than all of those combined.

_If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?_  
_If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?_

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**Once again, please review!**

**3 Huntress**


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